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You hear a voice. You close your eyes. You see a house. It is a day made for sleepwalking, stuffing obsolete coins into broken slot-machines, and the nights are made of hands. You close your eyes further still. You hear more voices. You keep your eyes closed for a couple of years. This is how books are made. Just don’t tell anyone. No one would ever believe you. Make a rosette from a plume of smoke. Keep your eyes and mouth shut and never let the blood congeal.